Loose Head

by Jeff Keithly

  Waters turned lazily onto his back, his marshmallow-white paunch floating proudly above the waves. “Bet you a tenner it’s Jester Atkinson – you know how he fancies practical jokes.”

  Seagrave rose stiffly and limped to the nearby white phone, already paying the price for his heroic exertions on the rugby pitch earlier that day. “Yes, this would be Mr. Rhinodong!” he cried irritably, laying on a thick Punjabi accent. “And my Christian name is pronounced ‘Sookah!’ I tell you now that I do not find my name the slightest bit... oh, hullo, Jester, we thought it might be you. Yes, we’re down by the pool – we’ve a few bottles of the amber nectar on ice. Right, see you soon.”

  Seagrave returned to his chaise lounge, lowered himself gratefully and bit back a groan of pain. “You win,” he laughed. He drained the rest of his longneck, opened another, then relaxed once more. Despite his soreness, he did feel so marvelously relaxed. Then his manhood stirred as he thought of the arrangements he had made for later this evening, and Seagrave was forced to carefully arrange his voluminous trunks to conceal his growing turgidity.

  For a moment he thought of Catherine, and felt a not-insubstantial twinge of guilt. If she ever found out about what he’d planned for tonight, she would be absolutely shattered. Seagrave was not a cruel or unsympathetic man; he knew that his wife was both proud and fragile. She would be gutted, completely gutted. He understood her well enough to know that, if she ever discovered how he really felt, her emotional response would degenerate rapidly from pain to bunny-boiling rage. Only chaos would follow, and his well-ordered life would be but a memory of happiness lost. It would be a blow from which she – and their marriage – might never recover.

  However, she would never know. He only hoped his planned exertions later this evening wouldn’t leave him too drained to perform in tomorrow’s final match.

  III

  Back in the suite he shared with Terry Ross, the Hastewicke Gentlemen fly half, Seagrave patted the last dabs of shaving cream from his face and, making a selection from the carefully-organized toiletries arrayed before him, applied a delicate spritz or two of Ralph Lauren’s “Stetson.” Then he slipped a pair of Pierre Cardin khakis over his silk Armani briefs, tucked in his flawlessly-pressed Tommy Hilfiger denim dress shirt and tugged on a well-scuffed pair of ostrich-skin cowboy boots. He glanced at his Rolex. His heart rate increased fractionally; almost time to go. He called down to the valet, to ensure that his rugby boots would be polished and returned by morning. Then he slipped out the door and down the hall to the elevator.

  She is waiting, as he had asked, on the couch near the door to Suite 455. At his approach, she rises gracefully, and he sucks in his breath. She is everything he had hoped, and more. So much more.

  The photos on her website fail to do her justice. She stands nearly six feet tall, her hair a silky coil of raven-black cornrow, her skin the color of strong tea with just a touch of milk. Her makeup is tasteful and immaculate; her eyes a luminous brown. Beneath her voluminous, knee-length silk dress, her flesh billows, bounces and jiggles, like the sails of a clipper ship bulging before a gale, from her enormous breasts to the plateau of her endlessly broad, shelflike buttocks. She is ...magnificent.

  “Roger?” she asks with a slow, shy smile. Her voice is low and musical, an excellent thing in woman. “I’m Rosie. Whole Lotta Rosie.”

  Seagrave feels himself grow weak in the knees. The truth is that, though slim himself, Roger has always found thin women unappetizingly angular. He loves Catherine, but he had liked her better as she was before she lost weight -- soft, wobbly and lavishly proportioned. He had thought her perfect. He has always been attracted to very large women, with faces out of a Rubens canvas and bodies built for sin. There is no explaining it; God knows he has tried. Maybe it is simply their gratitude that appeals to him.

  The thought of those acres of soft, undulating flesh, those fathomless, moist and mysterious crevices, in which a man might lose himself and never be found, is almost too much to bear. “Shall we go in?” he asks throatily. Rosie takes his arm, and the scent of gardenias wafts toward him. He almost moans. Instead, he produces the card-key to Suite 455 and opens the door. She is almost too vast for them to fit through the doorway together, but somehow they manage, and he is ever more aware of her mountainous femininity.

  Once inside, he kisses her, unable to restrain his need any longer. If he extends his arms fully, and squeezes, he can just touch his fingertips together on the other side of her equator-like waist. The sensation of her yielding mounds of flesh against his member brings him to instant, almost painful, rigidity.

  Lotta Rosie notices. With a playful grin, she reaches down and strokes him with her long nails; he almost comes then and there. “Oooh, Roger – we’re gonna be very good friends, I can tell already. You gotta be a whole lotta man to love Whole Lotta Rosie. But first –“ she leans forward to whisper in his ear “– business before pleasure. Do you have something for me?”

  He has the money ready; she counts it expertly, tucks it into her handbag. “Excellent. And now, Roger.” She advances upon him like a tigress; he gives ground toward the couch. “I’m gonna show you what all those white boys with their preying mantis women have been missing.”

  Rosie engulfs him with her pendulous bulk; the couch-springs scream in protest. “The bigger the cushion, the better the pushin’, honey. But then –“ the slow grin is back as she hikes up her dress “– you knew that already. Or you wouldn’t never have called Rosie.”

  Chapter 9

  And where was I while these masterpieces of decadence were being created? One of the things I’ve always enjoyed about rugby, particularly on foreign tour, is getting to know the opposition a bit, once all the on-field action concludes. On Saturday, I encountered a few members of the Sonoma RUFC, whom we had soundly thrashed earlier that day, in the lobby of the Bellagio. One of them, a second row named Tony DeGraffenreid, turned out to be a sheriff in El Dorado County, California. We found a relatively quiet bar off the Bellagio’s cavernous, cacophonous casino, and settled in for a few pints while his mates went off to try their luck at the tables. Our discussion turned naturally to our mutual calling.

  I asked him about his most interesting case. Tom narrowed his eyes in concentration, and took a drag on his Camel. “El Dorado County’s mostly pretty rural,” he said at last. “The California Gold Rush started there, and Sutter’s Mill is in my patrol area. It’s still mostly farms and forest, with a piece of greater Sacramento at the west end. Most of my calls are pretty basic – domestic disturbance, car crashes, somebody finds a pot farm tucked away in the trees. It’s a pretty interesting job, really; when your patrol area’s 100 miles square, you never really know what’s going to come your way.

  “One night I get a call from this farmer – raises dairy goats and sells the milk to one of the local cheesemakers. Said he’d heard some kinda disturbance in his barn, but when he went down to check, he didn’t see anything out of whack. I checked the place out, but there was nothing to see – just a bunch of happy-looking goats and a few tire tracks in the mud outside. I give the guy my card and tell him to call me if it happens again.

  “Coupla nights later, I get a call. It’s the farmer, yellin’ that it’s happened again. Only this time, he was ready. He tore out of the house with his shotgun, and fired off a round in the air. Saw some asshole down behind the barn, pulling up his pants. Then the guy jumped into a pickup and hauled ass. But this time, he left something behind – his wallet.

  “So I stop by and pick it up, and the next morning, I go to see the guy – driver’s license says Mark Smith, some hippy-dippy carpenter, lives up in the hills out of Hangtown. And when I show him his wallet, he just crumbles in front of my eyes. Confesses everything, and I mean everything. About how he’d always had this thing for farm animals, since he was a little kid, and about how women had always hurt him, and how there was one pretty little blue-eyed goat he just couldn’t get out of his mind... he even shows me the feed-
bag he used to keep the fuckin’ thing quiet, for Chrissake.”

  A slow smile crept across Tom’s hard-planed face, in anticipation of the story’s denouement. “I let him talk, and when he finishes, I give him a real hard stare, like this – “ he demonstrated “– and I says to him, ‘Boy, I just want to know one thing. Was that goat female?’” Tom started to laugh, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. “And he says to me, with this horrified look on his face, ‘Course she was, Sheriff! Whaddaya think I am, some kinda pervert?’”

  II

  So there was a glimmer of a silver lining, then: thankfully none of my teammates – at least those on Weathersby’s blackmail DVDs -- had a taste for barnyard animals in tiny fishnet stockings. I couldn’t vouch for Jester Atkinson, of course, whose sexual proclivities were known to be adventurous in the extreme; for whatever reason, he had evidently satisfied them somewhere other than Suite 455.

  After viewing the four blackmail disks in sequence, I felt voyeuristic, faintly nauseated, and strangely unable to look Brian in the eye, but also somewhat conflicted. I was relieved to be off the case, spared the responsibility for what now promised to be a hellishly intrusive, sensitive and difficult investigation of my closest mates. On the other hand, it was only too clear where the inquiry was leading: to a likely murder conviction for one of them, and heart-rending personal humiliation and tragedy for all, as their transgressions inevitably became known. All four were my friends, and I could think of a dozen ways I might, as a member of the investigative team, be able to spare them some small measure of discomfort. But that wouldn’t be possible now.

  There was a rap on the frame of the cubicle. “Wicks wants to see you,” said Jo Singleton, the plumpish, pleasant-faced group secretary. Wondering glumly which of my faults would be under discussion this time, I braced myself, knocked and went in.

  “Sit down, Reed.” He pointed to the single uncomfortable-looking chair before his desk. As before, DCI Oakhurst stood by the window, surveying me with gleeful malevolence. Wicks, on the other hand, looked angry enough to bite the nadgers off a badger. I carefully composed my face in preparation for the impending explosion.

  To my surprise, it was Oakhurst who spoke first. “Good news, DI Reed! We’re putting you back on the Weathersby case!”

  I stared at him blankly for a moment. “Sir? I thought my personal association with the victim and potential suspects was considered a liability.”

  “We’ve re-thought that position, and now we want you to ruthlessly exploit that knowledge for our benefit. We expect you and the rest of the squad to bring this case to a swift and successful conclusion. Yes, Peter? You had something to add?”

  Wicks merely shook his head, but a flush of magenta was creeping up his scrawny septuagenarian neck, a sure sign that he was ready to go off like a bomb. “You’ll be reporting directly to me,” Oakhurst continued. “Daily. I want you to begin by giving me a concise profile on each member on the Hastewicke Gentlemen, and every instance of potentially-embarrassing behavior you’ve ever witnessed on tour.”

  “But sir...” my horror must have shown, because Oakhurst was suddenly smiling very broadly indeed. “Only four of them were being blackmailed. If there were more, Weathersby’s solicitor would’ve had other disks. He’s confirmed that there were only the four.”

  “We don’t know that, DI Reed. We know Weathersby was both greedy and unscrupulous. There could very well have been others.”

  “If there were, we’ll know soon enough.” Furious and appalled, I stood to go. “Was there anything else, sir?”

  “Sit down, Reed – I’m not finished with you yet. I realize the delicacy of this investigation, and I appreciate the position it puts you in.” The cold mirth in his eyes showed just how deeply he appreciated it. “Your familiarity with the suspects could be the key to breaking this case. But I want you to know very clearly that if I discover a single instance of a potentially-relevant fact, however trivial, being suppressed to protect one of your teammates, you will face the severest possible disciplinary action. Is that absolutely clear?”

  “As a bell, sir.”

  “Good. And Reed?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “That report – I want it on my desk. By tomorrow afternoon, without fail.”

  I sat stunned for a moment, trying to come to grips with the enormity of this cataclysm. Wicks glared after Oakhurst’s departing bulk, then shut his office door. “Well, DI Reed? What’s the matter? Two days ago you were begging to stay on this case. Now you’ve a face like a slapped arse.”

  I shot him a look of reproach. “Have you seen the videos, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve a sense of what’s at stake here. These men are my friends, Detective Superintendent. If the contents of those disks become known outside this office... they’re dynamite. They’re going to make headlines and things are going to get very ugly, very fast. Public humiliation, divorce, utter ruin. It’s all on the table.”

  “They’ll blame you, of course. And if you try to shield them, Oakhurst will have your scrotum for a coin-purse.”

  “Yes.” I could feel the weighty truth of that.

  “Dex.” Wicks never called me by my Christian name; I glanced up in surprise, to meet his uncharacteristically fatherly gaze. “Don’t lose sight of the fact that, no matter how richly he may have deserved it, it’s very likely that one of your friends blew John Weathersby’s head off with an elephant gun. This isn’t the Old West. There’s a 98 percent clearance rate on London murders. We catch our murderers here, and lock them up.”

  I nodded, and he went on. “This case is going to twist you like a pretzel, Reed. You can’t possibly bring the requisite objectivity to bear, and it’s going to tear you apart. I don’t want to see that happen.” He looked as though the words were being dragged out of him with red-hot pincers. “You’re a good investigator, Dex. But if you knock this one on, I won’t be able to protect you from Oakhurst. You’re simply going to have to approach this case as if you’ve never met these people before.”

  “I appreciate the rugby metaphor. But why, sir?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why am I back on the case?”

  “Oakhurst insisted, and managed to convince Deputy Assistant Commissioner Goddard. Obviously Oakhurst is counting on you giving him grounds for disciplinary action. Just as I am counting on you to bring this case to a quietly successful conclusion.”

  “Ah.”

  “There may also have been some pressure from outside the department to re-establish you on this case,” Wicks added delicately. “The English aristocracy, while a sad, jug-eared mockery of its former glory, is not wholly without influence. I believe there are some members of the Hastewicke Gentlemen who hope that having one of their own at the centre of the investigation may spare them some embarrassment. Just don’t let Oakhurst catch you at it.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.” I rose to go, but his voice stopped me at the door.

  “And Dex... perhaps now you also appreciate why I pulled you off this case.”

  Brian glanced up as I re-entered our cube. “Good news!” I said with false heartiness. “Wicks and Oakhurst have decided that I‘m indispensable to the Weathersby case!”

  For a moment, Brian just looked at me out of those basset-hound eyes of his, understanding. “You poor bastard,” was all he said.

  Chapter 10

  “Christ, let me at that toilet! I’ve just sharted!”

  Sir Percival Henry St. John Barlowe, Harry to his mates, cracked the shower door in alarm. Through the billowing steam, he saw his suite-mate, Jester Atkinson, hobble through the door, snatch his trousers to the floor, and leap astride the crapper with a groan of relief. A deafening glissando shook the room, as if someone had attached an industrial air-compressor to a bassoon. It was followed, seconds later, by a stench most foul and ominous – fruity, yet repulsive, with a hint of rotting prawn.

  “So fell a blast hath ne’re mine ears sal
uted, nor yet a stench so all-pervading and immortal!” quoted Barlowe, and opening the shower door wider, he turned the showerhead full blast on his unwelcome teammate. “Mark Twain, you graceless twit.”

  Atkinson stoically endured the deluge, and sat dripping and gurning as he strained to crimp off another length. “I hate it when that happens,” he observed sadly.

  Harry couldn’t help but laugh. You never knew what would happen next when you were on tour with Jester. He was simply unhinged. One minute you might enter the room to discover him at the window, gleefully squirting catsup and mustard at the unsuspecting pedestrians far below. The next, you might catch him applying a thin layer of Atom Balm to your athletic supporter, or humming as he wired a 9-volt battery to the sink taps. His was a mercurial wit that fairly sparked and dazzled, like one of his booby-trapped washbasins, and lesser men could only shake their heads in wonder.

  Once, during the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s first Australian tour, Harry and Jester had been sitting in the bar of their Sydney hotel with Lord Ewan Ramsay, Hastewicke’s towering, dour Scots second-row. The door of the lobby toilet had opened, and a portly Aussie had emerged, his huge beard only slightly less voluminous than the fluffy crinoline dress that sheathed his loins. Its colour, an aggressive mustardy yellow, was particularly ill-suited to his ochre-red complexion; he was more an autumn than a spring. As the three Hastewicke Gentlemen had looked on in wonder, the Aussie had seized the arm of a much smaller bloke dressed in a matching Coleman’s-yellow suit and flounced off toward the ballroom. Gazing about the hotel lobby, the three teammates beheld other couples, all men, all dressed in similar his-and-hers outfits, all headed in the same direction.

  Unable to restrain their curiosity, Harry, Jester and Ramsay had carried their pints over to examine the placard at the ballroom door: “Welcome Pan-Australian Gay Men’s Square Dancing Society!” The three had made their way to the gallery above the ballroom, to gaze down upon a scene of exquisite weirdness: dozens of colorfully-dressed male couples, do-se-doing and promenading like the chorus from a production of “Oklahomo!”